Somewhere Over The Rainbow
by CreepyGhostQueen
Summary: Post Reichenbach. With Sherlock gone John is slowly losing hope and becoming less and less able to cope.
1. Chapter 1

The sun positioned itself just above the horizon, casting an orange glow across London. Humid summer night air clung to the skin of every exposed pedestrian. John Watson made his way slowly down the concrete blocks of sidewalk with sticky mist hanging over him like a blanket. Just beyond the corner he could smell the burning air. Crackling wood shouted into his ears, calling him closer.

A rather large bonfire was being held a safe distance behind St. Bart's Hospital. The occasion? To remember the late and great Sherlock Holmes. It had been a year since his fall off of the hospital roof. Although to John and the others time was altered. To some it seemed as though he had been gone but days, to the others his loss dragged on longer.

John had held an inter conflict for days proir to the occasion. Even now as he was greated by familiar faces he seemed so lost and alone. He would much rather have stayed home, locked in his bedroom with a blade and a bottle of whiskey. But he covered the battle scars with a light jacket, his excuse that it prevented the bugs from nipping at his bare skin. Nobody questioned farther.

The atmosphere fell short upon his arrival. Death had taken Sherlock without warning, and they all knew John was the most impacted. Yes, Mrs. Hudson had accquired acute depression, Lestrade was slowly becoming an alcoholic, and Mycroft attended therapy, but John, he was no longer himself. With the others their major traits had been unchanged and appeared from time to time. Not with John. He became quiet, not talking to anyone unless necessary. He rarely left his flat and when he did it was to buy food which he hardly ever ate. His weight had dropped drastically and his suicidal thoughts were more clear to others than himself. Still it was rare to hear a comforting remark directed towards him.

He was still in control of himself. The gun kept under his bed was loaded but remained unused. On occasion he would let his mind go with a drink, or two, or three. But it was the sober cuts and thoughts that hurt the most. Yet sober was what he preferred. After all he didn't want to forget Sherlock, nor did he want to feel better. To him pain was what reassured him that he was alive, even if Sherlock wasn't.

Surrounding the large fire were overturned logs. John took a seat on the one farthest from the music and the people. The fire blazed with beauty and life. Fire was always facinating to him, the sight, the smell, the sound, it was a treat for his senses. Tonight, however, it failed to thrill him. Rather it occurred to John that the sight, the smell, the sound, were all symptoms of the dying logs beneath and that a fire never truly lives, it only dies.

Part of John expected Sherlock to take a seat behind him and start to ramble on with useless facts about ash. He would prefer that to the solitude. Still in his mind he saw Sherlock every so often. A man in the market, a patient in the hall, a passerby on the street. They would dissapear before he had a chance to look again. Even I'm the fire he could see the face of his friend.

It was times like this he wished fantasy was real. Such as the man within the fireplace at Hogwarts, a magic fairy spell, an immortal god, true loves kiss, or the fox that faked his death. Oh yes if that last one was true John would be pissed, yet greatful, releived, happy. Three emotions he hadn't felt in a year. A year, that was all it had been. It had took only that long for Johns life to go from good to shattered pieces that barely resembled bad.

A gentle hand came to rest on Johns shoulder. He paid no attention to detective inspector Greg Lestrade as he proceeded to sit on the log beside him. "Everything alright?" He asked with the faint smell of alcohol on his breath.

John remained enticed with the flames. Lestrades words flew over his head as though they had never been spoken. Neither of the men objected the silence any farther. The simple presence of other human beings around reminded them that they were both broken yet functioning.

Lestrade knew that John was unstable. He would never let him know, but on occasion he would pace in front of 221B, silently looking for any sign of life in the flat. John had meant so much to Sherlock, and it was very clear Sherlock may have meant more to him than he thought. Lestrade had worked with Sherlock for years, and John had only for a few, yet the impression left by the sociopath was outstanding.

"Care to Dance?" Molly held out her hand to Greg. "It's my favorite song." In the distance the beats of a clearly remixed song was playing. Lestrade couldn't resist her offering and graciously took her hand.

As they moved out of beat with the music Molly's head was spinning. She herself was under the influence of various drugs. She would rather forget Sherlock than deal with the pain of loosing him. Greg danced with drunken glory, and Molly with forced happiness.

John watched them both slowly loose their mind. The old saying that time will heal seemed less and less true. To the three of them the pain just got more real. True the tears had faded for the most part, but so had their minds. It baffled him how one mans death could cause the destruction of so many people. Before Sherlock he had encountered many deaths and losses, none seemed to make him even flinch. But Sherlock was different. He couldn't tell why, and he may never know, but the truth was there, Sherlock had changed him.

The song faded out and Molly made her way back to the crowd on the other side of the fire, leaving the two men alone once again.

"I know you won't talk." Lestrade began as he sat facing the fire. "But a word would be nice."

Johns gaze remained directly in the flames as his mouth hung slightly open. "Fine." The word that slipped out was barely audible.

A smile wound itself around Lestrades face. "Funny." The smile faded as quick as it came. "John, are you alright being alone in that flat?"

He took a long breath before speaking. "I'm not alone." He reassured him.

"Mrs. Hudson can barely count as company these days."

Another long pause. "I don't need company."

"A basic human need is company. You can't be alone."

"I'm no more alone than you are." John was done with this conversation. The way his sentance struck like a whip was clear he was no longer eager to continue it.

The fire was now becoming victim to the wind, the flames had begun to fail and swoop close to the grass below. The guest at this so called memorial began to disperse without a word. Some were drunk, some were high, and yet few were sober in thought. Slowly those who were sober also parted, leaving John with a tiny blaze that was left.

He climbed off the log and onto the ground beside the fire. Gently he raised his sleeves to reveal the deep gouges of crimson red art that he had painted across his arm. The flames warmed his cuts and John watched the fire until his eyes could no longer remain ajar.


	2. Chapter 2

Grey clouds covered the skyline like a fleace blanket. John found himself back in his flat although he was certain he had passed out beside the fire. He would never know this but it had been Lestrade who had carried him like a child back into his bed. He had been simply passing by, making sure the fire had been extinguished when he found John practically lying in the ashes. John had only been in the flat for about an hour and it was now six A.M.

His brain was ticking like a bomb. He had awoken with thoughts of burning alive. To the majority of people those thoughts would be bad, but to John it was something he wanted greatly. In his mind Sherlock had died on impact. A quick and painless death. John would prefer to die painfully, so he knew he was dying.

The thoughts were black as the coffee he was drinking. He could jump, like Sherlock, he could burn, he could shoot himself, he could overdose, he could sufficate himself, the options were endless. Ever so slowly he began to pour the scorching coffee on his lap, drenching his pants and causing his skin to turn a deep red.

A gentle knock rang through the flat. "Hold on!" John shouted and quickly ran to change his pants. He slipped into a pair of lounge pants and ran down to the door. Mrs. Hudson was out on her weekly therapist visit, leaving the flat to John. In reality he could've ignored the knocking and went on I with his self torture. But a shred of him held hope that it could be the one person he needed to see most.

Outside, waiting rather impatianly was Lestrade. His foot tapped vigorously against the pavement, his hands opened and closed due to the forced ability to remain patient. His hand rested just above the door, about to knock again when it was opened rather slowly.

"May I come in?" He asked.

John extended the door to it's full opening and walked back up the stairs to his portion of the flat. Lestrade shut the door behind him and graciously wiped his feet before continuing on.

The flat remained exactly the way Lestrade had remembered it. The two chairs, the scattered books and papers, the seemingly meaningless little trinkets. Even the skull upon the fireplace remained unmoved. The only changes seemed to have happened in the kitchen where life went on. There were dishes piling up in the sink and boxes of cereal that lay askew upon the counters. Under the chair was a rather large and new looking spill of coffee that John was bent over and wiping up.

"Hasn't changed much." Lestrade laughed a tiny laugh, a forced one too. "Mind if I sit?" He gestured to the couch. He took Johns utter silence as a no and remained standing in place.

From having been in 221B prior, Lestrade knew that Sherlocks room was beside the kitchen, Johns was just up the stairs. He would need an excuse, or a distraction to be able to make his way up there to asses the true damage of Johns ever growing depression.

He was almost certain that John had left Sherlocks room untouched, as he had with the rest of the flat. But there was still the tiniest shred of doubt inside of him. As John bent over the puddle of coffee Lestrade snuck aorund him and into the bedroom.

There was a bed and a wardrobe. Not another piece of furnature sat anywhere. Sherlock must've kept most of his belongings out in the crowded studio he concidered part of his work space. Greg did a quick assessment of the area, searching under the bed and behind the wardrobe, double checking for any weapons or drugs.

"You won't find anything." John stood against the doorframe. His body was slouched and his face was weak.

"What about upstairs?"

He gestured his head back. "Go take a look."

The sudden acceptance worried him. Perhaps John really was alright, safe and sound. Or perhaps he had given up hope. Either way Lestrade slowly crept up the wooden stairs to the only part of 221B he had never before seen.

This room was filled much more than Sherlocks. There was a bed pressed against one wall, a wardrobe and a chair against the other, against the third wall was a desk with a laptop on it, and the fourth wall was the door. The room was small but full.

He began pulling drawers open, throwing clothes around and shoving his hand down into the thinnest gaps between the furnature and walls. He found three bottles of pills, one under the bed, one in a drawer, and one hidden in a pocket of Johns coat. "Prescription." Was all John had to say about it. He had also found a fully loaded gun underneath the fluffy white pillow. "Protection."

Lestrade wanted to believe him. He wanted to go home without any worries and go swallow a bottle of brandy before drifting off to bed. But he couldn't. From now on if John did anything to himself if would be his fault for not stopping it. "John?"

"Hmm?"

The next question hung on the tip of his tongue for a moment. "Your arms?"

John looked down and noticed he was not wearing long selves, but rather a rolled up flannel shirt. "What about them?" He asked and unbuttoned them and rolled them down as far as they went.

"You don't need to do that."

"Nor do you need to drink."

"Don't go there." Lestrade became suddenly defensive.

"So you can correct me but I can't correct you?"

"Drinking isn't that bad."

"My sister is a filthy drunk!"

"She's still your sister, drunk or not."

"Get out of my flat!"

"This isn't even your flat! It's still under the name of Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade shouted and instantly regretted it.

"Get out." John said solemly. "Please."

Greg didn't say a word as he turned and headed down both flights of stairs. On his way out he nearly ran into the land lady. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson." He apologized before racing out of the flat.

"John?" She shouted lightly up the stairs. "What was all the running and yelling about?"

"Nothing. Please leave me alone."

She obeyed, making her way to her kitchen to take care of her own recovery needs.

John stood, eyes closed in the center of the flat. Lestrade was right, the flat belonged to Sherlock still, John couldn't bring himself to remove his name, and neither could Mrs. Hudson, the land lady. John pulled himself up the stairs and into his room. He replace the bottles and the gun, making the room exactly as it was before Lestrade had ransacked it. He laid his head gently against his pillow and rested his hand on the gun below it.

By now John was certain that he was to die of his own accord, preferably sooner rather than later. John forced a smile upon his face and walked downstairs. "Mrs. Hudson?" He knocked on the doorway to her kitchen.

"John you look better!" She smiled and made her way over to him. She grabbed hai face between her hands and kissed his cheek.

"Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything. What do you need?"

"I've been having a craving for biscuits lately. Can you go buy me some?"

"Of course deary. I'll leave in a bit."

"Thank you." John retreated back upstairs and waited for her to leave.

When the door latched shut, an hour later, John was beside it, breaking the lock and stacking as many articles of furnature before the door as he could. Once he was almost certain the door would be unopenable he made his way back up into his room.


	3. Chapter 3

"John?" Mrs. Hudson shook the door handle but it seemed frozen in place. "John?" She knocked on the door, the bag shaking hastily in her other hand as she did so. "John!" She had only been gone twenty minutes, plus the chat with Molly, and getting stopped by her old friend Susan. Maybe it was more like an hour after all. John could've left, locking the door behind him. Maybe he had slammed it too hard shut the he broke the lock. She tried her key once more before shouting again.

Half drunk, detective inspector Lestrade was making his way back to Baker Street to apologize for his previous rudeness, when he heard the shouting of the old woman. "What is it?" He asked, nearly running to her side.

"The door won't open. And I don't know if John is home."

"Let me try." Lestrade moved aside and began to attempt to pick the lock. "Got it." He went to open the door but was restricted. "Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes? What is it?" She attempted to peak around him.

"Take my phone." He pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Call Mycroft Holmes."

Lestrade kept his eyes on the tiny crack of the flat that he could see. He noticed a chair, and possibly the side of a refrigerator. This would need more strenght than he had.

"He is on his way." Mrs. Hudson handed him back the phone.

"Not done yet." He shoulder checked the door only to pop it slightly out of socket, doing nothing to the door. "Shit!" He held his shoulder for a moment. "Call Anderson, and then give it back."

It was early afternoon name the sun was directly above the flat. Various pedestrians passed by, ignoring the crazy man and woman trying to break in.

"Greg?" Mrs. Hudson spoke with a tone of urgency.

"Not now."

"John is calling."

He stared at the ringing phone in her hand before taking it slowly. "John?"

"You won't get in." His voice was weak yet determined. "Might as well stop trying." The line went dead. Lestrade attempted furiously to call back but was immediently sent to voicemail.

Anderson was there within minutes and Mycroft shortly after. Together the three men attempted to pry the barriers away just enough to sneak through. Mrs Hudson stood off to the side, the light blue grocery bag still in hand. They were all oblivious to what was happening in the room just above them.

Form above John could hear the collection of cuss words and grunts. But their efforts were pointless. John was far stronger than any of them, and he had stacked the items just right that it was nearly impossible to get inside. He leaned his head against the wall and let the commotion commence.

"Isn't there another way in?" Mycroft shouted.

"The windows don't open." Mrs. Hudson was nearly in tears.

"We could bust through the wall." Anderson suggested.

"Just use some muscle and help move this!" Lestrade was still working on slowly scooting the refrigerator aside.

The men were remaining to have no luck whatsoever. The door was now only a quarter of an inch wider than when Lestrade had started. As the time ticked slowly by the men became more anxious and angered. Their thoughts went immediently to the worst of possibilities. Their was a grand sense of urgency by now and the four of them held immense tension. All they knew was that John was in fatal danger. The time was ticking down quickly and slowly all at once.

Mycroft held the door with his shoulder while the other two twisted their arms within the crack. Their eyes were shelided by Mycroft and the door, they had no idea what they were up against. Inside the furnature barely shook as they hooked and pried at it. The heaviest object was the refrigerator, however that was the least of their worries, it would be an easy thing to remove if the objects behind it hadn't been adjusted so.

"Move over you drunk." Mycroft shoved him aside. "Watson!" He shouted inside. "Watson!"

"Mr. Holmes." Lestrade held out his phone that was vibrating vigorously.

"Watson!" He growled into the phone. "There's something you should-"

He was cut of by gunshot blast that rang through the phone line and the flat.

"He's not dead." Mycroft fought to reassure the small crowd outside of the flat.

"We heard the shot!" Anderson screamed at him.

"The phone hung up."

"Because he-"

"You inspect things, cases, murders, tell me can a dead man hang up a phone?"

There was silence. All eyes darted to the small window at the top of the flat. Even Mycroft himself was unsure if John was among the living or the dead.

"Who are you waiting for?" Lestrade asked as he noticed Mycroft make occasional glances down the street.

"Anybody who can help." He lied.

"Numerous people have passed us and you haven't said a word. What-"

A long black car slowed to a stop in front if Mycroft's feet.

"You're leaving?" Anderson shouted.

"Hush." Mycroft ordered, holding up his pointer finger.

"You aren't just leaving us now John could be dead. Mycroft do you hear me."

"I'm not going anywhere." Mycroft turned to them with an angered expression. "Somebody has just arrived here."

"Who-?"

The windows of the car were tinted a deep black that the only way to see what was inside was to walk directly to them, which no man dared to do. It sat perfectly still that they began to wonder if anything living was in the car at all.

Mrs. Hudson stood off to the corner with her head in her hands, tears draining from her eyes and down here arms. The blue bag was now lying forgotten beside the door. She was nearly certain that she lost the last of what she concidered her family.

"Who's in the car?" Lestrade repeated Anderson's question.

"The only man in the world who can help." He sighed.

The door opened and a man slowly stepped out.


	4. Chapter 4

He looked like a ghost, not changing since the last time he had been seen. His hair was neatly trimmed into a bundle of curls. He wore his coat and scarf as though they were going out of style. Standing before the four of them was Sherlock Holmes.

"But you're-" Anderson gasped.

"Shut up Anderson." Sherlock walked directly to his older brother. "Am I too late?" His voice held a sense of worry.

"About a year too late." Lestrade put his hand on Sherlocks shoulder and spun him around. Hegrowled with anger, he was still uncertain if what he was seeing was real or not.

"Lay of the liquor." He ordered and began to pick at the flat door.

"It'll do no good brother mine." Mycroft sighed. "It's too late."

"It's never too late." Sherlock ran through the possible set ups inside the flat and settled on one, working hard to maneuver the objects he wasn't even certain were there.

"He shot himself!" Mrs. Hudson spoke at last.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock gave a slight wave, he hadn't noticed her before.

"Did you hear me?" She repeated weakly.

"No he didn't." Sherlock spoke half to her and half to himself. "He didn't shoot anything."

"Actually-." Mycroft spoke while Sherlock continued to dig. "He shot something."

"You said it yourself it wasn't himself." Lestrade added trying to calm Sherlocks nerves.

"I said I wasnt sure, but now we have heard nothing from inside and-"

"We heard nothing before-"

"Shut up I'm working." On the outside Sherlock was as collected as ever, but inside he was falling apart. John was inside, possibly dead. While Sherlock had been away, solving his own problems, John had been acquiring problems of his own. He would've been back two months ago had it not been for a slight get away to warmer weather, and even then he would've been back only two days from now.

He noticed his idea of the furnature inside was wrong when he grabbed a table where the chair should've been. His mind began rearranging a new floor map. "John!" He shouted into the flat. "John!" He got tired of working on ideas and ordered for the other men to join him in prying the door off the hinges.

Behind the door the furniture was layed out as a plan he had trashed due to utter simplicity. Without further hesitation he climbed over the furnature and raced upstairs while the others began making a path.

Upstairs the flat seemed empty, exactly as it had been the day Sherlock had left. He did a quick scan and proceeded to Johns room above. The door was locked. "John!" Sherlock was holding back a flood of tears.

A quiet groaning came from within.

"John!" He shouted again. "He's still alive!" He screamed down the stairs. He waited for what seemed like hours for the men to make it up and help him remove this door as well. It was barely unhinged when Sherlock crawled inside.

John was positioned unnaturally on the floor against the bed. The majority of his body looked already dead and limp. A .22 pistal lay just out of reach. Sherlock knelt beside his friend.

"Come to take me?" John forced a smile.

"I'm here John."

"I'm glad my first sight in death is you."

"No John, I'm really here." The tears could no longer conceel themselves.

"Sherlock it hurts." John spoke softly, still believing that he was speaking to an angel.

"What hurts? John tell me."

Lestrade and Mycroft watched from the doorway, not wanting to inturupt. Mrs Hudson remained downstairs, with Anderson, suffering from shock.

Johns eyes drifted down to his lower torso. Sherlock noticed the blood stained floor and johns hand that was now soaked crimson red. The shot was not an instant kill, and had John knew that.

"Why?"

"I needed you." John cried.

"Why so painful? John why such a painfull way?" Sherlock grabbed his blood soaked hand between his.

"I needed to know." He cringed.

"To know what?" Sherlocks voice shook.

John stared at him for a moment. "Why are you so sad?"

"You're dying."

He smiled up at the man who was now holding his head along with his hand. "But now I have you Sherlock."

"I'm not dead John. I'm here." He could no longer hold it in. Even his breathing shook as he layed his chin on the top of Johns head.

"How?" John held a puzzled look on his face.

"Don't speak." Sherlock settled John head into his elbow and squeezed his hand tight.

"I-I"

"Shhh."

"I love you Sherlock."

From the doorway they watched John slowly slip into death in Sherlocks arms. Sherlock remained, cross-legged on the floor with John held tight within his grasp.

"I love you John." He whispered and kissed the dead mans forehead. "I love you. I love you. I love you." Between every word was a drawn out sob.

"Is he-?" Lestrade began to step forward but was stopped by Mycroft's arm.

"Let's leave him alone." He turned and directed Greg and himself down to the other two.

Blood had begun to soak onto Sherlocks clothes but he refused to notice. Gently he closed johns eyes with his fingers and kissed his forehead. He continued to hold him in his lap however, not wanting to, or not being able to move. Johns body was completely limp. He was dead from loss of blood and shock most likely, that was technical anyway. Sherlock knew the truth. John was dead because he wanted him, and he was too late.

He let out another sob and began to sing gently.

_Somewhere over the rainbow way up high_

_There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby_

_Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue_

_And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true_

_Someday I'll wish upon a star_

_And wake up where the clouds are far_

_Behind me_

_Where troubles melt like lemon drops_

_Away above the chimney tops_

_That's where you'll find me_

_Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly_

_Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh, why can't I?_

_If happy little bluebirds fly_

_Beyond the rainbow why, oh, why can't I?_

And with that he melted into a fit of silent tears that seems to last forever.


End file.
